


Standing Stone

by draculard



Category: The Wicker Man (1973)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Human Sacrifice, Lord Summerisle's awful May Day costume, M/M, Omens, Virgin Sacrifice or Sacrifice of Virginity?, ominous dreams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:48:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23018050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard
Summary: On the thirtieth night of April, Neil Howie has a dream.
Relationships: Neil Howie/Lord Summerisle
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	Standing Stone

On the thirtieth night of April, Neil Howie has a dream. 

He dreams of himself lying underneath an oak tree, naked beneath a plain white robe like the kind he wore as an altar boy. He stares up at the branches, at the buds at the end of every twig waiting to sprout into leaves. Hanging from one of the branches is a little doll made out of twine, with a paper mask pasted to its head. From below, Howie can’t tell if the mask represents a human face or an animal one.

And he can’t move to get closer. He can’t check to make sure.

He becomes aware, gradually, of his fingers clasped loosely around the stem of a single flower. He becomes aware of the whisper of petals against his thigh. He knows without looking that it’s a garlic flower, the type that grew in his mother’s garden, the kind she was always asking him to weed out. He can feel the stiff, purple buds against his skin. 

He remembers how he plucked them from the flower when he was a child and ate them, letting each one rest on his tongue, savoring the acidic taste. 

The branches rustle. He hears the whine of an insect close to his ear, feels gnats landing on his exposed skin — but his gaze is glued to the tree, to the thing rustling in the branches.

A rook looks down at him, its beak slick with something dark. He sees its warty talons curled around the twig it’s perched on. It cocks its head; black eyes stare into his.

He cannot blink.

He feels the weight of it when it lands on his chest. He watches it bob into sight as it walks the length of him to look him in the eye.

He feels its beak between his lips. He feels blood sliding from the rook’s gullet into his, feels it trickling down his throat, feels it coating his gums, his teeth, his tongue.

And then he wakes.

Sweat dampening his hair, making his clothes stick to him.

Cock stiff against his stomach. 

Mind clear.

* * *

He doesn’t search for Rowan Morrison on May first. He sees the masks, sees the costumes as he passes by rows of normal-seeming houses on his way through the village. 

He doesn’t quite make it to Lord Summerisle’s house. The man himself is waiting at the edge of town, his heels in dirt, his toes on the ancient cobblestones that line the street. He stands straight and thin with the sea behind him.

His face is painted white.

He smiles at Howie. When they’re close enough to hear each other over the howl of the wind, he says, “Figured it out, have you?”

“Yes,” says Howie simply. “I have.”

His eyes track over Lord Summerisle’s black wig, falling in curtains over his shoulders. Dark as a rook’s wings. He feels something stirring deep in his soul and he can’t figure out what it is.

He thinks it might be anger.

He knows it must be something else. 

“Come,” says Lord Summerisle, and his long, dry fingers close around Howie’s. They feel brittle in his hands, like twigs. “Come with me,” Lord Summerisle says. “We’ll hash it out together.”

He smiles. His teeth are crooked.

Howie follows him home.

* * *

He’s not sure later on who started it. They don’t even make it inside Lord Summerisle’s house; they’re on the lawn, not far from the monumental stones where Howie saw the girls dancing just days before, when his hand falls from Lord Summerisle’s hand and he comes to a halt.

His eyes are on the stones, on the ashes of the fire. Wind whistles between the monuments, blows the remnants of yesterday’s fun into the grass.

He’s lightheaded. He wants to feel that grass in his hands. 

He feels Lord Summerisle’s eyes on him as he sinks to the ground, dirtying the knees of his police uniform, sinking his fingers into soft, green grass. He finds a dandelion and doesn’t pluck it, but lets the stem rest between his forefinger and his thumb, feeling the brush, the tickle of it against his skin. 

There’s the sun beating down on the back of his neck.

There’s Lord Summerisle’s hand on his shoulder, warm and broad. 

He leans into it. Maybe what happens is that Lord Summerisle leans into him. Maybe what happens is that Lord Summerisle leans away.

Maybe he isn’t so inviting. Maybe he says no. Maybe he doesn’t greet the ruination of his plans with a smile.

But his lips are on Howie’s lips now, and Howie can’t remember which one of them moved first.


End file.
